From the Sidelines
by Wordspin
Summary: *canon divergent after season 6* When the supernatural sweeps into town, Claire Duval, art teacher at Mystic Falls High School, strives to stay out of it. She largely succeeds, but even then the accumulation of isolated events leads to a path different from the one she had envisioned.
1. Chapter 1

**FROM THE SIDELINES  
**—

Disclaimer: I own nothing other than a store of ideas and those characters you don't recognize.

Author's Note: This story is my first foray into _The Vampire Diaries_ fandom, the product of nearly a year of drafting. It was sparked into being on account of plot-holes — Damon and Elena's happy ending despite their not actually managing to resolve the problems in their mutually acknowledged dysfunctional relationship; Caroline's carrying fetuses without her body being magically readied to support them first; the Gemini coven's both transferring the fetuses and completely cloaking them using one single spell that works for transfers (to a prison world) only — and fantastical elements that would fit better into _TVD_ book-realm than the TV series — the Phoenix Stone, the post-mortem preservation of the Everlastings' bodies, Rayna Cruz's poisonous-to-witches blood, the Sirens, the Founder's Bell.  
I have created a compendium of sorts to go with the tale, which can be found at fromthesidelines-dot-fandom-dot-com, and which will be updated along with the story.

I hope you enjoy what follows. The sharing of thoughts is very much welcome and appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

She woke up before the alarm went off. Outside, Claire knew, the world was still gray and cool. She lay in bed for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet and, after a while, the faint sounds of early dawn that were beginning to filter through the window shutters. As comfortable as she felt at the moment, though, she couldn't stay under the covers forever, so she got up, dressed and went downstairs into the kitchen.

Her notebooks and books were on the table where she had left them the night before. As she waited for her coffee to brew, Claire made breakfast and rolled up the blinds of the large window above the sink. She ate in silence, leafing through one of the books, and by the time she finished, the sky had grown lighter.

She looked out the kitchen window, up at the clear heavens, and opened the door to the small porch. It was a rather fine morning, she realized as she stepped outside, neither hot nor cold, one of those days when the temperature was just perfect. The red oak tree in the yard looked vibrant. The herb- and flower-beds were bathed in the soft glow from the rising sun.

Claire sat on the step, cradling her mug, and looked around the garden. She breathed in the scent of autumn and smiled. She'd walk to work, she decided. It wasn't far — a fifteen-minute walk or so — and in this weather, walking would be pleasant.

Finishing her coffee, she went back inside. She made sure everything she needed was in her backpack, found her phone and keys, and, with a last look in the mirror to tuck back a flyaway strand of dark hair, left the house.

The walk from Covington Street to Mystic Falls High was uneventful, with only the sound of her low heels on the sidewalk. Claire felt a kind of excitement bubble in her stomach. There was still something thrilling about the first day of school, even after two years of teaching.

The student parking lot was almost empty when she reached her destination. Inside the school building, she found William Tanner, Lisa Edwards — the Italian teacher — and Martin Cott — the biology teacher — in the teachers' lounge, poring over papers. She stayed there for a while, asking about their summer and their families. Lisa and Martin were happy to chat about their vacation, but the history teacher kept to himself. Claire left them some time later, making for her eight o'clock class.

She got to the art classroom with ten minutes to spare before the bell rang. Arranging her things on the desk, she glanced at the blackboard to make sure there was no lack of chalk, and looked around slowly, taking in the posters on the walls. The sunlight streaming into the room was bright and warm, and for a long moment Claire gazed outside the window at the school grounds. She traced the cover of the book in front of her. Her eyes found the clock above one of the cupboards. Then, with a private smile to herself, she made for the door briskly. Her trip to Principal Weber's office was short, but by the time she returned to her classroom, students had already taken their seats at the shared tables.

"Good morning." She returned the book that was on her own desk into her backpack and remained standing until everyone was in attendance. When the voices died down, she took a second to study the faces looking up at her. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. "Welcome back to art class." She paused for a beat. "It's a beautiful day today, and it's a shame to stay cooped up in here. So, get your things and let's go outside."

Absolute quiet followed her words. No-one moved. All eyes were on her, and every face wore an expression of disbelief. Claire felt a childish urge to laugh. The reactions should have been expected — her students weren't used to her being so spontaneous.

"I've spoken with Principal Weber," she began again. "Those who don't want to sit on the grass, grab a chair. Come on." She slung her bag on her shoulder and looked at her class.

A second later, the room was filled with the sound of chairs scraping back. Claire turned to the door, feeling like a giddy schoolgirl. She led them out to the grassy area near the football pitch and sat on the wooden table there. The class settled on the turf, facing her.

"What better way to start the new school year than talk about the Renaissance. It began in Italy in the fourteenth century and lasted until the seventeenth." She paused. "_Renaissance_. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear that word?"

"Art," a girl at the front laughed, just as a sandy-haired boy said, "Da Vinci."

Claire nodded and looked around.

"Florence," someone else said.

"The Uffizi Gallery." This came from a bespectacled brunette near the back, her voice slow and timid.

Claire gave her a bright smile. "The Uffizi Gallery," she concurred. "Have you ever been, Louise?"

"My parents have, when they went to Italy a few years back," the girl answered. "They took _a lot_ of pictures."

"It's hard to resist," Claire agreed before turning her attention to everyone. "The Uffizi Gallery is a Renaissance-lover's paradise, and one of my favorite museums. And I'm not saying that because I went to college in Florence."

Grins followed the statement, but she went on without a beat. "The building of the Uffizi was commissioned by the second Duke of Florence, Cosimo I de Medici. It began in 1560 and was completed twenty-one years later. _Uffizi_ in Italian means o_ffices_. Does anyone know why the museum is called that?"

There was a momentary silence. Then the brunette girl spoke: "It was meant to be offices, apparently, but—" She paused. "It's _big_."

Claire opened her mouth.

"It was built to accommodate the Florentine administration."

The art teacher turned abruptly to look behind her. The voice belonged to a dark-haired young man about her age, lounging against a tree. Blue eyes were fixed on the group, and a smug grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. He had handsome features. Claire didn't recognize him.

She blinked. "That's right," she said slowly, vaguely wondering how long he had been watching them. He held her gaze for an instant before she turned to address her class again, tearing their attention from the stranger.

"Cosimo commissioned offices for the Florentine magistrates, but the top floor of the Uffizi was turned into a gallery for the Medici. Over the years, more rooms were dedicated to exhibiting paintings and sculptures. The Medici, apart from being filthy rich" — at that, Claire's flow of speech was almost interrupted by scattered laughter — "something that becomes very obvious when you get to sight-seeing in Florence, were also great patrons of the arts. Their patronage contributed significantly to the development of the Renaissance."

•

By 3:30 p.m. Claire had left school and was heading home. Crossing the street across the Mystic Grill, a short, high-pitched cry caught her attention. She recognized the sound immediately and followed it down the flight of steps and into the alley below the restaurant. The kitten was crouched next to the wheel of a trash can, a small ball of black fur. It stopped crying once it felt Claire's presence, scooting back into the wall when she turned her footsteps toward its hiding place.

"Hey, little guy." Claire sat on her heels near it, reaching out slowly. The kitten hissed and tried to scramble away. A stray, not used to human contact, she concluded. Still, she picked up the small bundle by the scruff of the neck and held it close, stroking its soft fur. "It's OK, I won't hurt you," she began talking to the kitten in a gentle voice. "You're OK." The tiny animal had frozen in her arms. After some time of her caressing it quietly, Claire felt its head lean into her touch and the little throat begin to vibrate. She smiled. "There you go." She scratched the kitten under the chin.

She maneuvered the strap of her bag back onto her shoulder one-handed and got up carefully, taking a second to adjust her blouse. Walking to the main street again and looking toward the school, the events of the day's first class replayed in her mind. A slow, faint frown appeared above the bridge of her nose. The stranger had stayed, watching and listening, for quite a while. Claire hadn't turned her attention away from her high-schoolers, but by the way some would, at intervals, gaze behind her, she knew he was there. He hadn't spoken or disrupted the lesson in any way, but the students' looks and the feeling of being watched had been odd. She fumbled with her cell phone, attempting to dial as she continued to stroke the kitten that had sunk its claws into her light cardigan. Her sister picked up on the forth ring.

"Guess what happened today," Claire said by way of greeting. "Dark, handsome, blue eyes."

At the other end of the line, Diane's voice was clear and intrigued. _"Details."_

"Well," Claire began, her eyes glimmering as she paused for effect. Across the square she thought she caught a glimpse of blue eyes and the hint of a smirk as a young man turned down a side street. She blinked and readjusted her grip on the phone. "He's about one month old," she continued, "I found him in the alley below the Grill, and I'm taking him to the vet." The warmth in her chest returned.

Diane's reaction was exactly what she had expected. She heard her sigh dramatically and could imagine her shaking her head. _"Crazy cat lady."_

Claire shrugged her shoulders. "I fell in love."

"Did you name him yet?" Diane asked.

Claire looked down at the kitten nestled in the crook of her elbow and stroked him with her fingertips. "No, not yet." She studied the ball of fur for an instant before turning her attention to where she was going. "Anyway," she said, "I gotta go. I'm outside the vet's."

Dr. Weir's clinic wasn't far from the town square. Despite the unplanned visit, Claire didn't have to wait much, and half an hour later, the kitten had been checked, dewormed, deflead and booked in for a vaccination at the end of the week, should he show no signs of illness.

When she got home, she was carrying more than just her cat and backpack. She set the pair of plastic bowls in a corner in the kitchen, cleared a cupboard to store the dry food in, and placed the soft bed and covered litter box near the dresser in her bedroom. The kitten was exploring the kitchen when she returned downstairs. As soon as he saw the feathery toy Claire had began swishing just above the floor, he abandoned his scrutiny of the fridge corner and ran to her. She filled his water bowl and watched him crunch greedily on the kibbles, a smile on her face. Then, the name came to her. He looked like a Cicero.

•

Claire jolted awake. Everything around her was pitch black, her pulse was drumming loudly in her ears, and it was a good few moments before she got her bearings. She was sitting upright in her own bed, the sheets tangled about her waist, her heartbeat almost deafening. As her vision started to clear and adapt to the darkness in the room, she began making out the shapes of her nightstand, her dresser, the kitten's igloo bed. She calmed down.

The last fragments of the nightmare that had woken her came to the forefront of her mind. The woods at night, shadowy trees, a young woman whose features she couldn't see clearly straining as a sound caught her attention, fog descending around her, something moving in it with lightning speed. Claire couldn't remember if there had been more of that dream. She supposed there had been. The eerie feeling and the impression left by those final hazy bits were powerful.

She shook her head and reached for her phone. The numbers on the screen showed 5:28 a.m. The alarm wouldn't go off for another hour, but she knew she couldn't fall asleep again. Not after that dream. She got dressed, grabbed her phone and MP3 player and left the room silently.

The night was quiet when she got out of the house, the moon still bright. The street was deserted, but the lamps along it gave a comforting yellowish light. Claire put her earbuds in and turned up the volume. The song reverberated as she began jogging, all blaring electric guitar and keyboard. It had the intended effect — the lingering feeling of unease the nightmare had left her with was ebbing away. She concentrated on her breathing and the loud music. It had been some time since she'd jogged, but she welcomed the exercise now.

Rounding a corner a while later, Claire let herself slow down. Her gaze fell on the quaint brown-walled house with the blue door. She'd visit Sheila in the afternoon, she decided and turned back toward Covington Street.

•

The second day of school was uneventful, although at times a scene from the nightmare would pop up unbidden, unsettling her. When she returned home, Claire threw herself into playing with Cicero. When the kitten showed signs of tiredness, she left the house again.

"Are you alright?"

Sheila Bennett was able to gauge her mood moments after she had opened her front door. It seemed her expression hadn't been as neutral as it had felt, then.

"Bad dream," Claire answered, meeting the older woman's gaze briefly before taking a seat on the couch.

Sheila fixed her with a discerning eye but didn't speak. "Coffee?" she asked at last.

"Tea," Claire returned.

Once Sheila was back in the living room, sitting next to her, Claire fiddled with the handle of her cup. "I haven't had such a vivid dream since _Grand-m__ère_ died three years ago."

Sheila held her gaze, nodding once.

"This wasn't as clear," Claire continued, "but the feelings . . ." She shivered at the memory.

"What was it?" Sheila's voice was gentle.

"It was night, a girl walking in the woods, fog, something I couldn't see attacking her." Claire shook her head. "I guess that animal attack the other night got stuck in my subconscious." She looked at her host hopefully.

"Sometimes bad dreams are just that — the subconscious rearing up its head," Sheila offered soothingly. She took another sip of her tea.

Claire lowered her own cup long enough to agree, her voice soft, and brought the ceramic container back to her lips. "How's the teaching going this year?"

"Same as always," Sheila answered. "Most kids take the class because they think it's cool and fun. Believers are very few and far in between." She let out a sigh. "Even my own granddaughter doesn't believe."

"It's a lot to take in," Claire pointed out after a split second of silence.

Sheila hummed humorlessly. "Anyhow, what about you?"

"I had a good first day," Claire replied. "My first class was interesting." A fleeting half-grin brushed her lips. "We had an audience for most of it — a man I've never seen in town before, striking blue eyes."

Sheila's mouth curved upward at that. "Says the girl with blue eyes."

Claire gave a snort of amusement. "Truth be told, it felt a bit unsettling," she said, sobering. "And I found a kitten in the alley by the Grill." Her face brightened. "He's a gorgeous little thing."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thank you all for reviewing, following and favoriting!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Claire had no disturbing dreams that night. The next morning at school, however, she heard that senior student Vicki Donovan had been attacked by an animal during the annual Back-to-School party the previous evening. She frowned, her pulse beating a little faster. Then she remembered the first attack had also been in the woods. It was only logical that since it hadn't been caught, the animal responsible would go hunting again.

Work drove the matter from her mind. When her free period loomed closer, though, something else began nagging at her. The parent-teacher conference. More specifically, the part that concerned Jeremy Gilbert. Truth be told, Claire didn't know much about the boy beyond the fact that he had a good hand and a good eye when it came to art. He was a good kid, and he had talent, but he was skipping classes only three days in. Speaking to Jenna in her formal capacity might be the best option.

As if on cue, the woman in question appeared.

"Hey." Claire greeted her first.

Jenna paused near the door, eyes glinting. "Am I supposed to call you _Ms. Duval_ now?"

Claire snorted in reply, her nervousness dissipating somewhat. "Have a seat, _Ms. Sommers_." She gestured at a chair.

Her face still lit with good humor, Jenna sat. It took her less than a second to grow serious. "So, how's Jeremy doing?"

Claire let out a breath, her stomach contracting once. She looked steadily at her friend. "He has a lot of potential, but he's skipped my class once already, and sometimes he seems distracted." She inhaled quickly and went on. "Of course, that may mean nothing. It's still early in the year, and . . . it's only been three months. Just . . . be aware of it."

Jenna frowned. Momentary silence hung between them. Then her expression smoothed. "Yeah, I will."

•

It was near the end of lunchtime when another knock came on the art classroom door. Claire looked up from the papers on her desk.

"Mrs. Lockwood." She succeeded in keeping the surprise from her voice, but couldn't help what came next. "How may I help you? The eleventh grade's parent-teacher conference isn't until tomorrow."

The mayor's wife gave her a gleaming smile as she came closer. "I know, Claire. It's just tomorrow I have errands to run and I thought I'd try coming today instead. The school secretary said you had a free slot." The smile made the corners of her eyes crinkle.

Claire made no comment, looking at the mayor's wife instead. When it came to self-convenience . . . Wordlessly, she swept a hand toward the tables and chairs of her classroom.

Carol Lockwood remained standing.

"I only have a few minutes."

Claire released the pen forgotten in her hand. These past two years she'd learned not to expect a lot of parents to show up at the beginning-of-the-year conferences, especially when it came to her junior and senior students. It did make sense, after all — if there was no major behavioral problem, what was there to really talk about when only just a couple or so days of the new school year had gone by? Carol Lockwood was an exception, however. She always came to these far-too-early parent-teacher meetings, always prompt and business-like and smiling for all the world to see.

"There is not much to tell about Tyler, so far," Claire said. "He attends class and stays involved." The good thing about students picking Art as an elective course was that they actually _wanted_ to be there.

The mayor's wife seemed content with the answer. "That is nice to hear." She gave her another small smile. "How are your mother and sister?"

Claire was unprepared for the change of subject. "They are both well," she rallied quickly, "and Baltimore does agree with my mother."

"A loss for our community, but Maryland has gained a dedicated historian," Carol remarked. "We will continue to be seeing _you_ at the Historical Society?"

Claire met the older woman's clear gaze. "Of course."

•

She was just finishing with her Art I class when the screen of her phone lit up. The bell rang. Claire waited until the classroom was empty and sat at her desk. She couldn't help the chuckle that rose in her throat when she read the text message.

_Tanner's a real douchebag_, Jenna had written.

Claire's fingers hovered over the touchscreen, but before she could decide how to reply to Jenna's message, she got another text.

_I have to see the English teacher and I'm done. Wanna grab a coffee?_

Perfect timing.

_Just finished my classes for the day. I'll wait for you in the parking lot_, she wrote back.

Standing by her car almost half an hour later, Claire saw Jenna walking toward her.

"At least Mrs. Enders is more agreeable than Tanner," her friend said by way of greeting.

Claire hesitated. True, the history teacher could be very smug, but she wasn't going to discuss a colleague's flaws with anyone.

"Some people are better at interaction than others," she said at last, settling for a vague comment that she hoped would end that talk.

"Yeah, well, he should keep his issues to himself," Jenna returned. "Where are we going?"

"Not the Grill," Claire was quick to answer. "I want someplace more quiet. _The_ _Coffee Ground_?"

"_The_ _Coffee Ground_ it is."

The small coffee shop wasn't far from the school, and so they walked there. On the way, Jenna filled Claire in on the meetings with Jeremy's other teachers.

"I still can't believe I missed the signs," she was saying as they sat at an outside table. "I know he still has difficulty coping, but . . . getting high?" She lowered her voice as a waiter came to get their order.

"Talk to him," Claire prompted when the girl left. "Find a way to help him unload." She paused. "A heart-to-heart usually helps."

Jenna was silent for a moment. She sighed. "I wish Miranda was here. She'd know just what to do."

Claire studied her. "Teenagers aren't easy. You're doing the best you can."

•

The next morning Claire was woken by something soft rubbing against her cheek. She heard the loud purr before opening her eyes and smiled. One of the kitten's sharp claws grazed her neck. She picked the animal up blindly and set him on the covers. She stretched, feeling excitement suddenly bubble up in her belly. The kitten watched her finger as it traced patterns on the plain textile, darting this way and that after a while. Then he struck out cautiously with a paw. Claire laughed quietly to herself but didn't withdraw her hand.

Her good mood lasted all seven-something hours of school.

"Someone's all chipper today."

Lisa Edwards' voice came so unexpectedly that Claire felt her heart stutter. Her humming was cut short.

"Boyfriend?" Lisa continued speaking, unaware of the fright she had caused.

Claire turned to see the Italian teacher gazing at her, dark eyes glinting.

"Nope," she replied, her pulse returning to its normal rate.

"The comet?"

The question made Claire look up sharply. Her breath hitched again. It took her a long second to remember that Lisa knew of her interest in the night sky, a fondness her mother had passed to her.

"Yeah," she agreed slowly.

"My husband's excited about it, too," Lisa went on. "Rare sight and all that. We'll see you tonight?"

"Definitely." This time Claire's answer was immediate.

•

She booked an appointment at the vet's in the afternoon. Cicero was quiet during the ride there, and once in the exam room, he relished the attention the veterinary nurse showered him with. Purring away, he promptly forgot about the sting of the small needle and resumed rubbing against outstretched hands. Like many a human infant after a vaccine, however, he was drowsy within the hour.

Claire left him to sleep it off and went down to the kitchen. When she next looked at the clock on the wall, it was a little before 7:30 p.m. She shut the art book she was studying and hurried to her bedroom, finding fresh clothes and heading to the shower. Afterwards, a taste of the evening air through the open window dismissed her initial notion of driving to the town square. Another brief look at the darkening sky had her reaching for a sketchbook and pencils. She stowed them in her backpack.

Leaving the house, Claire made a detour toward Maple Street. The lights on the porch of number 2104 were off.

It was several seconds before the door opened after her ringing the bell. Jenna appeared, a pen in her hair.

"Hey. Just wanted to see if you changed your mind."

Jenna sighed. "Would that I could. I feel that if I interrupt my flow now, I'll lose my focus."

Claire studied her. Jenna had said she wanted to take advantage of Elena and Jeremy's not being at home to get some work on her thesis done. Claire had hoped the good weather and the intrigue of a rare sight would persuade her to wrap it up early.

"Tanner's words about responsibility got to you?"

Jenna let out a huff. "I guess they did. I figured _this_ is something I can control, at least." She paused. "If I get enough done, I'll let you know, and we can meet up."

Claire saw the apology in her eyes, heard it in her voice. She could understand how Jenna felt. "OK." She nodded. "Don't push yourself too hard."

Jenna's lip curled slightly.

Once the door was shut behind her and she turned in the direction of the town square, Claire got her phone out.

_"I can practically feel you skipping."_ When Sheila picked up, Claire could tell the older woman was smiling.

"Can you, now?" she returned, the corners of her mouth curving upward.

"_Mm-hmm."_ Sheila's non-verbal affirmation was tinted with amusement. _"You going to see the comet?"_

"Of course I am," Claire answered. "Coming?"

_"I'm afraid I can't,"_ Sheila replied. _"I have to brush up on some facts for tomorrow."_

Claire raised an eyebrow. "You, brush up on the Occult?" She heard Sheila give a short chuckle.

_"Contrary to my students' belief, I don't know everything."_

Claire caught herself grinning. "Alright, then. Have fun."

_"And you enjoy yourself tonight."_ Sheila's voice was still faintly amused.

"I will." Claire's eyes were bright. It was a clear night, and that comet was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

The town square was beginning to fill with people when she got there. Most were holding candles in plastic cups. Some had sparklers. There was light everywhere. Claire wondered just how visible the comet would be now that the night was made so artificially bright. In a corner of the square she caught sight of Lisa and her husband. They were manning the counter that held the supply of candles.

The Italian teacher was luminous, her all-white clothes contrasting her dark skin. She smiled and held out a candle.

"Thanks." Claire took it with a half-nod.

"That bag looks heavy."

She turned to John Edwards and hiked one strap of her backpack higher. "I thought I'd do some sketching."

"You'd better get a bench then, or soon you won't find a place to sit." John gestured toward the growing crowd of townspeople.

Claire followed the sweep of his arm, taking in the sight. He was right — it seemed that in a few more minutes the square would be full.

A woman came to stand behind her, so she said goodbye to the couple and went in search of someplace to settle. Claiming an empty bench nearer the road, she set her backpack beside her and looked up. The sky was almost black. Claire picked up her candle. She gazed at it for a moment and set it upright, her knees locking around it. Cupping the wick with both hands, she glanced about.

"Need a light?"

The woman's voice made her hands jerk back and her knees clench reflexively. Liz Forbes had stopped beside her bench, holding her own lit white candle, her features soft.

"Sheriff, hi." Claire took a second to raise her arm and allow Liz to kindle her wax light. "No duty tonight?"

"Yes duty; just taking a break for five minutes," the sheriff replied, and Claire refocused.

Of course, she was in uniform. How could she have missed that?

Liz had drawn herself to her full height again. "Enjoy the celebration." She gave a tilt of her head and a slight upturn of lips and went on her way.

Claire watched her go and then secured her light source between two slats of the bench. She took out her sketchbook. Slowly, the blank page began to fill with the scene before her: people with candles, smiling young children holding sparklers, trees decorated with lights.

The sky had turned inky when she looked up sometime later. Touching pencil to paper for the last few quick strokes, she put everything away and simply studied the people around her. After a few minutes, she got up, gathering her things and heading toward the street.

She stopped in front of a tall brick building. The glass window-front read _Soundwave Music Studio_. Lifting her gaze to the roof, Claire considered it briefly. She produced her keys from her backpack and unlocked the door, securing it again behind her once she let herself in. She turned no lights on. Only the candle flame brightened the small foyer. Even if it were pitch dark, though, her feet would always know the way to the stairwell at the far side of the building. And even in complete blackness she could picture in detail the layout of both floors the way they had been only a few months ago. Beyond the foyer was the room where her father had taught piano, separated from the half-bath by a flight of stairs. On the second story were the rooms where guitar and voice lessons had been given.

This was the place where Claire had fallen in love with her father's art, watching him instruct his students. These memories were the reason the music studio still stood empty five months after Henri Duval's passing. She knew she ought to have rented or sold it, but the memories it held made her selfish.

Claire's feet had carried her forward on autopilot, across the foyer, up the stairs, and she now found herself on the building's roof. It was wonderfully quiet up here, away from the noise of the square below. Claire had a beautiful view of everything. In the calmness, the elation she had felt for most of the day began to return. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky, but her fingers tapped on the roof wall incessantly. Feeling the weight on her shoulders, she paused to set her backpack and candle carefully against the bricks. Catching herself humming, she fished her phone out of her jeans pocket and dialed her sister's number.

"Can you see the comet from Baltimore?" she asked when Diane picked up.

_"I saw it,"_ her sister said. _"Quite something, isn't it? I felt as if my skin was tingling, made me wanna do . . . things."_ Her voice was becoming as excited as Claire felt.

"It's never too late," she returned, but even as she said it, Claire could sense her sister deflate.

_"No." _Diane had sobered instantly. _"I don't want to get what happened to _Grandmama _and Grandpa."_

Claire sighed. She could understand why her sister didn't want to tell her husband. It was a big risk. Their parents had been lucky. "Yeah." Her own voice was no more than a pensive murmur. Then, touching the brick parapet, she smiled. "I'm on the roof of Dad's studio. Brought my sketchbook along. Do you remember when he used to dance with Mom in the kitchen?" She began tapping against the wall once more, the stately rhythm of a waltz.

_"I do."_

Claire could hear the fondness in her sister's tone. "He would've loved this. Would've probably taken Mom out to enjoy the sight."

_"When we spoke this morning, she said she did go out last night,"_ Diane said, _"tried to find a dark enough place to watch the comet." _She paused. _"Speaking of dark . . . How are you going to sketch up there?"_

"I have a candle and my phone," Claire was quick to answer.

_"Well, get to it, or soon not even those will be enough."_

Claire felt warmth spread through her at the concern in her sister's voice. "Yes, ma'am." A momentary smile brushed her lips. "Talk to you later."

After the line went dead, she realized she was still tapping against the bricks. She looked down at the phone screen. Her mother would still be in yoga class. She continued tapping. Soon, her feet began to follow the rhythm. Claire found herself waltzing, heat rising in her chest again. She could feel that tingling Diane had spoken of, but soon, another sensation was added to the bubbling emotion inside.

She abruptly stopped moving, her breath coming in short bursts. A quick look around confirmed she was alone. Still, that sudden feeling of being watched had been so piercingly real. Claire gave a mental huff. The only access to the roof was from within the building, and she had locked that door.

She went back to where she had left her things and set up for sketching, ignoring the dark sky. Her phone's beam was a decent light source. Human figures began to emerge on the paper, but where she had intended to sketch the town square from memory, she ended up with a kitchen, a man and a woman dancing in the empty space between the table and the sink. Claire studied the finished scene, brushing a feather-light finger above it. She got up and packed her things. The candle propped against the wall had melted to almost half its original size. The town square below was much more quiet than before.

Shouldering her backpack, she made for the roof door and blew out the candle.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Thank you for reviewing, favoriting and following!

* * *

**Chapter**** 3**

Claire's eyes opened as soon as the alarm went off. Putting a swift end to the flowing sound, she lay motionless, staring ahead. Her heart still beat violently against her ribcage. Her breathing was painfully audible. Darkness — not the suffocating darkness in the woods after sundown, but night over an open space bordered by buildings — and something flashing like lightning toward a stationary figure. That was all she could remember of the nightmare. And even that was beginning to slowly fade now, leaving behind the lingering sense of terror.

Once the pounding in her chest subsided, she sat up. No time for an early jog to take her mind off the sensation. She'd have to wait it out. She got dressed and sat again, still unable to shake the feeling. Cicero came to rub against her legs. Claire picked him up. His eyes were beginning to change color, she noticed, turning greenish. He purred as she scratched under his chin, and Claire smiled.

•

Unlike a few days previously, this nightmare didn't haunt her throughout the school hours. It broke the surface of her subconscious only once, in her freshman class. She had set her students sketching and was walking between the tables, looking over their work.

"That's good. Loose, light lines, not too much pressure on the paper."

The boy she addressed continued drawing, but one corner of his mouth hiked up.

"No need to worry about detail now, you'll refine it later." This was aimed at a blond who fretted over detailing his half-finished initial sketch.

The next student she walked by had already defined the shapes on her page, drawing low buildings against a dark background. The scene from her dream flashed suddenly before Claire's eyes. She stood still.

"Ms. Duval, are you alright?"

Claire blinked. Her freshmen were staring at her. "Yes, just a dizzy spell." She gave the girl who had spoken a small smile, her vision clear of pitch-black night and human figures. She continued walking between the tables.

The nightmare was quickly driven from her conscious mind, and the feeling of unease that went with it was gone before the bell rang.

During lunch break, Claire noted once more that Saturday's football game was the main topic of discussion, among both the student body and the faculty. Then, when she, Lisa and Martin went to the Mystic Grill for a cup of coffee after school, the biology teacher suddenly grew even more excited about the event.

"You'll probably miss out if you don't come tomorrow night." He put his phone on the table, screen still lit, and addressed Claire, knowing Lisa was not one to miss the game. His eyes were bright. "I know, I know, you're not much of a football fan," he went on before she had a chance to respond, "but" — he paused for effect, looking from one woman to the other — "there've just been updates. Straight from the source." He tapped his phone. "We have a chance to win this time. New blood on the team, wide receiver, and to hear Will talk, he's a real talent. Stefan Salvatore."

Claire's eyebrows rose. "Salvatore? Founding family Salvatore?"

"Distant relation," Martin answered.

Claire let out a sudden half-chuckle. "Let's hope he will prove to be a savior for the Timberwolves. They need it." She drew in a quick breath and made a slight grimace. "That was mean."

"It was true," Lisa said. "God knows our football team hasn't seen a victory in ages."

"So . . . are you coming?" Martin asked again.

Claire hummed. "Maybe. It's the first game of the season, after all."

•

When she got home, she stretched out on the couch in the living room. The few moments of absolute quiet that followed came to an abrupt end when her phone rang. She reached for it slowly, sitting up when she saw it was Jenna.

_"Hey. What are you doing tonight?"_

Her friend was cheerful. It was infectious.

"I don't have any plans."

_"Great."_ Jenna's good mood was nearly tangible._ "__Elena's having Bonnie and her new boyfriend over for dinner, so I'll make myself scarce. Wanna go to the movies?"_

Claire gave the proposition some thought. "How about you come to my place for movie night? I'll cook."

She could almost hear Jenna smiling.

"_Deal. I'll be there by eight."_

And true to her word, she got there before then. When Claire opened the door, Jenna held up a little cardboard box. "I brought dessert. Cupcakes." Once she had taken her load to the kitchen, she looked around and turned to Claire. "I want fluff."

Pulling out a pot and skillet from a cupboard, Claire looked over her shoulder. "Go choose."

Jenna took herself off to the living room. After a brief bustle, there was silence, during which the only sound came from the kitchen — a knife on the cutting board. Then —

"Found it! _Under the Tuscan Sun_."

Claire chuckled. "Nice. It suits dinner perfectly."

"Pasta?"

"Carbonara."

There was a momentary pause.

"Need any help in there?"

Again, Jenna's tone overflowed with amusement. Claire's lip quirked. "Nah, I'm more than good, thanks." She sobered, reaching for the grater. "I'll be done in twenty minutes." The parmesan smelled divine. "There's a Pinot Gris in the wine rack. Put it in the fridge to chill?"

"Done."

She heard Jenna moving toward the small room next to the kitchen, and a few minutes later the fridge opened and closed again. A chair was drawn back from the table.

"Gah!"

Claire's hand clenched around the handle of the skillet. Thankfully, the bacon remained undisturbed. Relaxing her grip, she turned to see a standing, rigid Jenna clutching the back of her chair, gazing down.

"I almost stepped on him."

The black kitten didn't seem bothered by the fact. He looked up at Jenna until she sank down to crouch beside him.

"So this is Cicero." She didn't touch him, but he pressed against her calf, tail twitching. "Cute." She put out a tentative hand.

•

Saturday dawned bright and warm. Even so, Claire was glad for the opportunity to sleep in — those two-something hours of extra rest made a big difference. She spent most of the morning and afternoon reading, rolling a sisal ball on the floor for Cicero to chase, and weeding her garden. As the sky grew dimmer, however, a feeling of restlessness began to creep over her. Partial as she was to the quiet, there was only so much time one could spend alone. She called Lisa and made ready to go to the game.

When she reached the football pitch, the bleachers were already swarming with fans. She made her way to where Lisa had told her she and her husband had found seats.

To one side of the field, the cheerleaders were warming up. Claire made out Liz Forbes' daughter, her blond hair and black scarf making her stand out from the rest. She wondered briefly at the choice of accessory, but her attention was soon caught by Lisa waving at her from where she stood a few rows ahead. She joined the couple, and they waited for the referee and teams to enter the field.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. At one point, there was a flurry of movement on the very fringes of the field, a small group huddling together, their gestures agitated. Then all was normal again. After some time, Principal Weber walked onto the pitch, microphone in hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen, students and parents." His voice was halting. "Tonight's football game is canceled." He waited for the hubbub that rose in the stands to subside. "I find myself in the unpleasant position to announce that another animal attack has just occurred, here, at our school. And it is with deepest grief that I must inform you that the victim is our own history teacher, William Tanner."

The murmurs that had begun filling the stands were now reverberating through the football pitch. The principal waited for a lull in the noise. He went on to say that all competent authorities had been notified and that the sheriff's deputies would soon see everyone to the exits.

Claire heard his voice as though from a distance. How on earth had a wild animal found its way into the heart of town? When the crowd began moving, she followed Lisa and John quietly, thoughts still racing.

Outside, the parking lot was bustling. Police had roped off the place, paramedics were gathered around William Tanner's body, and even the animal control unit had been called. The people around her were a talkative bunch, all loud voices and curiosity, a beehive that buzzed nonstop. It was almost enough to give her a headache. Claire watched the proceedings, absently noting how the police cruiser lights winked against the wall nearby. She blinked. Open space, buildings, human figure, night.

"Hello, Claire!"

Lisa's hand was waving in front of her face. She blinked again to refocus.

"We're leaving," Lisa said. "Coming?"

"Yeah." Claire answered without thinking, glancing back at the cars before forcing her legs into motion.

The drive home wasn't a peaceful one. Her thoughts kept circling back to the school parking lot. Another animal attack. Four people in the span of one week. It nudged at some memory, but it remained on the fringes of her consciousness, elusive. Something someone had told her long ago . . . Who? These weren't the first animal attacks in Mystic Falls — there had been others in years gone by. Where had she heard that? An image of her kitchen flashed in her mind's eye, her mother and sister on either side of her at the table. Her mother. Her fascination with everything that had to do with her hometown. Of course. Just like Carol Lockwood had said, Grace Fuller was a dedicated historian.

Too wound up to even consider leaving it until morning, Claire let herself in the house, locked the door and sprinted up the stairs.

The attic was a rectangular room, about twelve feet wide by twenty feet long, its entryway flanked by a dresser and a round wooden table with three matching chairs. By the window opposite the entrance, an armchair soaked up sun, the dark red upholstery fading. Claire crossed to the large bookcase pushed against one wall and scanned the shelves. Thick leather-bounds tomes, volumes of children's stories, photo albums, an old camera, a collection of colorful rocks. Nothing there. She turned her attention to the sealed cardboard boxes beside the bookcase and sat on her heels.

Rifling through the files and pages covered in her mother's neat script, she found a piece of paper that, unlike the others, featured only a few lines of notes.

_1953 – Héloïse & Philip Banner find dead woman in woods. Animal attack._

_After this Héloïse keeps track of attacks on people in Mystic Falls._

_1962 – 3 men & 2 women found dead over course of month near old cemetery & by road leading out of town. Animal attack._

_1974 – 2 men & 1 woman dead while camping in woods. Animal attack._

Claire paused. She had forgotten it had been her grandparents who found that woman back then. Only now, after reading these notes, did she recall her mother mentioning the fact, in that excited manner that made her face light up. Neither Claire nor Diane, still teenagers at the time, had found the mention disturbing, used to their mother's sharing tidbits she had discovered in her long research on the lesser-known history of Mystic Falls. And their grandmother . . . Claire could picture her sitting in an armchair, recounting the incident in detail to her daughter-in-law, as calm and collected as ever. Truly, Claire had grown to believe that nothing could ever faze Héloïse Duval.

A small smile tugged at one corner of her lips, and she bent over the old page again to read the last scribble.

_1864 – Thomas & Honoria Fell dead outside Johnathan Gilbert's mansion. Animal attack. Founders' archives in MF library._

A frown settled on the bridge of her nose. So many animal attacks in a small town where supposedly no bad things ever happened. Claire began going through her mother's papers again, spreading them out in a semicircle in front of her. There. She picked out five newspaper clippings, dated February 1962 and June 1974. The articles weren't very specific, stating that the victims had been bitten and died of blood loss. In none of the cases had the animals responsible been seen or caught. After those revelations, the reporters had gone on to write about the life of the deceased and about those they left behind.

Lowering the last slip of paper to the floor, Claire reached for the page where her mother had written down the dates. All that was left now was to have a look in the Founders' archives.

•

Once school was over on Monday, she headed to the town library. The quiet in the building was a welcome contrast to the hours spent surrounded by talk. Offering the librarian a quick_ hello_, Claire climbed the stairs to the upper floor. She found the aisle she was looking for easily and felt oddly pleased with herself for not having needed Mrs. Kemp's assistance, even after some time since her last visit.

Not ten minutes later, she pinpointed the passage her mother had referenced in her notes.

_November 9, 1864  
Reverend Thomas Keeping Fell and his wife, Honoria, were__ attacked and killed by a mountain lion__ outside Johnathan Gilbert's mansion. The wild animal __is believed __to have ventured away from its natural habitat in search of food. Johnathan Gilbert, who witnessed __the animal's viciousness, was most fortunate to have escaped and succeeded in driving it away. It was he who recounted this __grisly tale._

Claire stopped reading. A quiet town indeed! Strange that the only occurrences — war excluded — that had shaken the community had been these animal attacks. She tapped her finger against the page and closed the book, returning it to its place.

•

William Tanner's funeral service was held on Tuesday afternoon. It was a quiet affair. Claire noted that, apart from his sister who had come from Illinois, the history teacher had no other family present.

His death and the boldness of the latest animal attack had shaken the community in truth. There was rumor that the Founders' Party which was to be held at the end of next week would be canceled. Before that day came, however, the gloom hovering over the town was lifted somewhat. A mountain lion had attacked a hunter and was caught. The mystery was solved.

It all seemed rather straightforward. Still, Claire couldn't be rid of the feeling that something crucial was missing. After what she'd found in the attic and the passage concerning Thomas and Honoria Fell, this simplicity didn't quite add up.

She revisited the notion as she hunted through her wardrobe, discarding blacks and whites and earth tones. Her hands rested on a navy-blue dress. Paired with the nude low-heeled sandals, it would do nicely. She pushed the thought of successive attacks and mountain lions aside and focused on getting ready.

A large crowd had already assembled when she arrived at the Lockwood mansion. The mayor's wife was standing near the door in the foyer, greeting her guests with bright smiles.

"Claire, you do look lovely." She took a step back to let her pass.

Claire gave her a small grin. "Thank you."

She glanced around and set off in search of Jenna. Her friend was close to the bar outside, watching people milling about. Eyebrows pushed slightly together and arms crossed, she was the personification of a loaded spring.

"Looking out for Logan?"

Jenna let her arms fall to her sides. "I haven't seen him yet, thank God."

"Half the town's here, maybe you'll get lucky," Claire said, scanning the area.

"That's what I'm counting on."

Claire peered at her. "Let's go for a walk." She led the way toward the pond, her pace deliberately slow.

Their stroll along the water's edge didn't do much to improve Jenna's mood. She declined the suggestion to see the heritage display. Claire left her nursing a glass of wine and climbed the staircase to the upper floor alone.

Of all artifacts present, it was the framed piece of paper on the wall that caught her eye. The guest registry of the first Founders' Party. She felt her lips twitch upward. A document so old, carrying living memories of dip pens and black ink and the past . . . Claire began reading silently. She paused at one name among the many familiar ones. _Stefan Salvatore_. Like the new wide receiver on the school's football team. She wondered if contemporary Stefan had been consciously named after this ancestor from the 1800s. And below that name was another. _Damon Salvatore_. A son or a brother, perhaps. Claire couldn't help the curious thought whether present-day Stefan had a brother with that long-ago relative's name. She blinked and stepped away, heading to the small model of Fell's church that dominated a table by the door.

When she returned downstairs, Logan crossed her path.

"Claire. You look stunning." His gaze swept her body from the above-knee hem of her dress to the V-shaped neckline.

"Thank you." She didn't smile. After Jenna had left town, Claire had come across Logan Fell only a handful of times. He was an ass, but it wasn't in her nature to forgo all semblance of civility. "If you will excuse me."

She made her way to the bar and studied the bottles on display. "Miraval rosé, please." The man behind the counter filled a glass. Wine in hand, Claire went outside.

Jenna was sitting at a table, looking into the distance. "I saw Logan," she said as soon as Claire sat down. "He wanted to have lunch."

Claire half-snorted. "Cocky. You told him to shove it?"

"I did."

Claire nodded at her improving mood.

Before the night was done, though, Jenna had accepted Logan's invitation to lunch.

Claire stared at her. "Why?"

"He seemed sincere," Jenna said, reminding her of the exchange at the bar she had missed when she had gone off to talk to some of her parents' acquaintances. "And anyway," she hurried on, "I can't stay mad at him forever."

Claire sighed. "True," she conceded at last.

"It's only lunch."

"Uh-huh." Claire's response was drawn out.

Jenna didn't meet her eyes. She was silent for a few moments. "I feel exhausted. I'm going home." She pushed her chair back.

Truth be told, her friend _was_ beginning to look a little pale, Claire thought. "I'll stay a bit longer." She finished her wine after Jenna left, watching the couples who had taken to the dance floor.

Someone came to stand beside her. It was Martin.

"May I have this dance, Ms. Duval?"

"Hi." Claire smiled at her colleague. "You may." She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the floor. "No Amanda tonight?"

A strand of light brown hair fell into Martin's eyes as his head drooped. "We're hitting pause." He didn't elaborate.

Claire nodded and left it at that. Martin spun her around, and they went on dancing in silence. As he twirled her a second time, a pair of blue eyes met her own from afar. The moment was brief, and the impression was fleeting, and when she turned to look, there was no-one watching them. She shifted her attention back to Martin. He gave her a slight bow as the music faded and escorted her from the dance floor. Claire gave her head a mental shake, driving out the notion of phantom perceptions.


End file.
